


Roots, Tangled

by DHW



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Cardassian Culture, Epistolary, M/M, Post-A Stitch in Time - Andrew Robinson, Post-Canon Cardassia, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-21
Updated: 2019-12-21
Packaged: 2021-02-26 07:21:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21709651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DHW/pseuds/DHW
Summary: "It's a metaphor, Garak," said Julian. "Sometimes, I think you choose not to understand these things simply to infuriate me."
Relationships: Julian Bashir/Elim Garak
Comments: 44
Kudos: 146
Collections: Star Trek Holidays 2019





	Roots, Tangled

**Author's Note:**

  * For [shopfront](https://archiveofourown.org/users/shopfront/gifts).



> Thank you to Quaggy for giving it a good old eyeball and telling me what was missing. ♥

_Hello Garak,_

_As always, I hope this letter finds you well. After all, as a doctor (even if I am no longer yours, specifically), to open my letters with any other line would no doubt violate some oath or other. Or at the very least, be terribly bad manners._

_Fingers crossed this letter has got to you in good time. Word on the cans is that there’s some serious lag in the network, especially all the way up here in the mountains. It’s the snow, apparently. It weighs upon the transmission relays and distorts the signal, or so Citizen Soral tells me—though between you and I, I’m not entirely sure she didn’t say it just to fob me off, given that the entire town, including its relays, lies underground. I am a pest, apparently. A pest!? Me!?_

_Yes, yes. I know. I can hear your fervent agreement with Soral all the way up here. Still, if a man can’t take righteous offense at even the most accurate of statements, then what is the world coming to, I ask you?_

_Which, incidentally, was the same thing I asked Soral. For which I got an ear-full in reply, and upgraded from ‘pest’ to ‘bloody menace’—a term, I am quite proud to say, she picked up from me. Terrifying, isn’t it, when someone has the measure of you so completely in such a short stretch of time? I think I rather like her._

_But I digress. So, Imar—my first Cardassian festival. Sounds exciting. I would be delighted to join you for the festivities. Though it has been so long since I last saw you, there’s quite a strong possibility I’ve completely forgotten what you look like. Best bring a sign with you when you come to meet me at the city gates, just in case._

_(I joke, of course. As if I could forget you, Garak)._

_I’ll be with you on the first morning of the festival. I’ve managed to grab a space on one of the overnight trans-contintental skimmers heading to the city. You have me for two whole weeks, you’ll be pleased to know—long enough that I’m certain you’ll be happy to see the back of me by the time day sixteen rolls around. What was it my mum always used to say? Ah yes, ‘you can have too much of a good thing’. And I’m aware of exactly what that implies, before you start._

_I’ve missed you._

_Yours,  
Julian. _

_P.S. here’s a little something to keep you occupied between now and the day after next. I think you might find chapter 47 interesting. I confess, I once did much the same as Pelagia, back when I first moved to Cardassia. Though you gave me an orchid, rather than a rose, the book was ruined nonetheless._

[ENCLOSED: Captain Corelli’s Mandolin, Louis de Bernieres]

  


## ***

  
It was the first day of autumn, and the temperature was almost forty degrees. The sandstorms that had rolled across Cardassia’s vast southern deserts had finally abated. A thin film of orange dust coated every surface, highlighted every crack and crevice in the city walls.

Tourists were already beginning to arrive for Imar, the Festival of Light. A five-day extravaganza held in the streets of Lakarian City. They came in a flood from the towns and villages scattered like pebbles across the Lakarian desert. Followed the winding roads like a river until they trickled into the city’s waiting hostels and spare-rooms. Some camped in brightly coloured tents pitched in the wasteland by the city walls; others slept under the stars in the patchwork of public gardens and parks.

In Garak’s garden, the orchids bloomed.

He rose with the sun and dressed swiftly. He put on his best tunic, his best trousers, and his best boots. Black, all, with intricate golden needlework upon the colar, cuffs and quarter. The outfit had seen better days, as had much of his wardrobe, but remained respectable enough. He gave himself an appraising look in the mirror—too thin, too old, too tired—before heading down to the kitchen. From his meagre rations, he took the last of the feyt and a stale flatbread, slipped them into the bag at his shoulder and left.

Though the day was still in its infancy, the sun only just above the horizon, the heat was already unbearable. As Garak made his way down the uneven streets of Lakarian City, he could feel the sweat beginning to dampen the back of his tunic. All his years in exile he had spent dreaming of half-remembered heat and the feeling of sunlight upon his scales; as he made his way to the Northern Gate, he reflected that the reality of it was much less pleasant than the dreams had been.

The streets he walked were silent. Once there had been markets here. He remembered a sea of brightly-coloured stalls, each bursting with wares ranging from the mundane to the miraculous; salesmen and women, shouting their sales pitches over the din of the crowds, inviting all who passed by to come and try what promised to be, truthfully or not, the best in town; the scent of food, spices, perfumes, mingling upon the warm winds that blew in from the desert. Once, the markets of Lakarian City had been the envy of Cardassia Prime. As he looked upon the empty square, the shells of the buildings that had once surrounded it, Garak hoped they would be again, one day.

At the Northern Gate, there stood two security officers dressed in bright blue. One male, one female. A sergeant and a constable. From their belts hung a badge and a phaser. In their hands, there were PADDs.

“Good morning, Citizen,” said one.

“We’re not to let anyone through for another hour, yet. Prefect Khell’s orders,” said the other. “You’ll have to wait.”

Beyond the gate, he could see the brightly coloured tents of the tourists. Voices mingled with music and laughter, all softened by the whistle of the wind. There was the scent of food, too; aytlik soup, heavy with spices, bubbling away in large pots at the centre of the village of tents.

“Good morning, Officers,” Garak replied to the pair. “And I’m aware of the situation, thank you. I’m looking for a friend. A Terran,” he said. “Tall; thin; greying slightly at the temples. He’s a doctor, stationed up in Corvon.”

“Name?”

“Julian Bashir.”

The officer to Garak’s left scanned through her PADD, the three round pins of a sergeant upon her lapel glinting in the sunlight. She was young. No more than thirty, at a guess; barely old enough to have graduated from the Academy. The seniority of her station, like the husks of the city’s buildings and the silence of its streets, was yet another example of all they had lost.

“A group from Corvon arrived last night,” she said. “CTC 537 docked at 26:42, as scheduled, but there was no-one by that name on board.”

  


## ***

  
_My dear Doctor,_

_Perhaps I should have known better than to believe you when you said you’d arrive here for the start of the festivities. Given that time and yourself appear to have a tenuous relationship at best—and yes, I did keep count of the number of occasions you were late for our lunches. Fifty-six, if you were wondering—I cannot confess to be surprised by this turn of events._

_I can only assume that the delay is due to some unfortunate medical emergency only you and your illegally large brain can solve._

_Ah, the disadvantages of friendship with one so in demand! It is lucky, is it not, that I am not the jealous type?_

_Whilst you did not ask, I am sure you will be delighted to know that the first day of the festival has been a resounding success. In no small part, I might add, to the tireless efforts of myself. I cannot recall whether I mentioned my role in this year’s proceedings: I am currently on loan from the Ministry of Reclamation—see, dear Doctor, you are not the only one in demand!—and am busy working for Prefect Khell. I’ve been given the role of Chief Liaison to Lakarian City’s Oralian community. An honour, or so I’ve been told. However, I get the distinct impression it is that singular variety of honour that is only viewed as such in order to soothe the ego of the poor individual unlucky enough to be gifted it._

_The expression that comes to mind is a Terran one: it is like herding cats. In fact, I would be so bold as to say it is worse than herding cats. Cats, at least, do not wax philosophical on the morality of being herded. _

_Still, success was had in the end! Or, rather, the beginning, given there are four more days to go._

_(Four more days, dear Doctor, in which I expect to be granted your delightful company. I have been denied one—suffice to say, I will not stand for more. My pleasures in life are few, and you are one of them.)_

_Yours in anticipation,  
Garak_

_P.S. I have read the book (I thought it shallow, trite, and overly sentimental—but you already knew I would). However, I did find chapter 47 most illuminating. As a medical man yourself, do you agree with Dr Iannis’s assessment? Are you, indeed, mad?_

_I am._

  


## ***

  
Garak had lived in Lakarian City for two years, and before that, Cemet. He’d lived in Andak, Tellel, Pra’Trang, and Fanav too, if only briefly. His work with the EMU— back when the wreckage of his childhood home still smouldered amongst the ruins—and later for the Ministry of Reclamation, had sent him to many of the towns and cities that decorated the Southern Continent.

In the six years since his return from exile, he had seen more of Cardassia than he had the forty-eight years before. He had travelled across both desert and steppe, coast to coast, east to west, and all the way up to the Vyaln j’Makrat—the mountain range that divided the continent in two. Further north remained a mystery to him; a place he knew of only through the news reports that crackled over the communication relays, and the books he had read as a child. But he considered himself well-travelled, nonetheless.

They had been lonely, those first few years he had spent upon the Southern Continent. His home had become a stranger to him, as had its people. What little had been left of either of them.

He found himself thinking of Deep Space Nine often in those early days, and how much more familiar the ground had felt beneath his feet. Of the taste of the recycled air as opposed to that of smoke and dust. And of Dr Bashir, who had since substituted their weekly lunches for weekly letters.

It had been three days since Julian’s last letter. Two since he had been scheduled to arrive at Lakarian City. And one since Garak had begun to worry.

As he had the day before, he dressed smartly and made his way down towards the Northern Gate and the jumble of tents in glorious technicolour beyond.

“Good morning,” he said as he approached the pair of officers.

The sergeant, whose badge proudly proclaimed her name to be Rin Zol, gave him a cheery wave. She stood a full head taller than her partner, and as she moved, the fabric of her sky-blue tunic stretched tightly across her wide shoulders.

“Good morning, Citizen Garak,” she said. “Come back to enquire about your mysterious Terran friend?”

“Well remembered,” he replied. “I have, indeed.”

“Then I’m afraid you’re going to be disappointed,” said the second officer, who glanced up from his PADD. “No citizens named Dr Bashir, Terran or otherwise, have entered Lakarian City limits.”

He felt his heart sink in his chest at the news. The worry that had clawed at his stomach throughout the previous evening renewed its attack.

“Are you sure?”

The young man’s face hardened. “Are you calling the Department of Security’s work into question, Citizen?”

In the old days, the dark days, Garak reflected, questioning an officer like that would have spelt trouble. Not prison—not for so small an infraction—but at least a fine, perhaps a month of Community Service, or a day or two of re-education at the State’s pleasure. He had lost his touch, forgotten the rules of the game; the years he had spent amongst the Federation had both dulled his wits and loosened his tongue. A dangerous combination.

But this was the New Cardassia, and the rules were different now. Garak shook his head.

“No. No, of course not,” Garak replied, raising his hands in apology. “I was merely wondering whether there could have been some sort of miscommunication. Terran languages are notoriously difficult for our translators to parse. Therefore, assigning no blame, of course, it is not beyond the realm of possibility that my friend has been mis-categorised, and thus slipped through your very well constructed net.”

The officer’s expression remained flinty, his green eyes cold as stone. He fixed Garak with a hard stare.

“There are no Terrans in the camp,” he said sharply.

“And none have come through the Gate,” Zol added in a softer tone. She turned to her fellow officer, and continued, “Really, Jiro, there’s no need to be quite so harsh. He’s only asking out of concern.”

In the distance, Garak could hear the bells of the city’s Central Square ring out a cheerful little peal, signalling the passing of the hour and the start of the day’s celebrations. Absently, he patted the small bar of latinum in his trouser pocket. His duties awaited him. 

“Officer Jiro is quite right; I spoke out of turn.” He gave the young officer a small, penitent smile. “Forgive me.”

  


## ***

  
_Dear Kelas,_

_How are you, old friend? Congratulations on your promotion. I hope the Department of Health and Social Responsibility is treating its newest Director well. After all your work with the State Relief Project, they could not have picked a better candidate to oversee it._

_As for myself, I am still at the beck and call of Prefect Khell, and will be for the next week. Festivals, as I have come to discover, do not run themselves. That is not to say I do not enjoy the work—I am, as you know, a glutton for punishment—but I do look forward to returning to my more usual duties with the Ministry of Reclamation._

_I hear whispers that I am to be sent to Cor’Vani next. (It is a town at the foot of the Vyaln j’Makrat, Southern side, if you were wondering). As much as I have enjoyed my time in Lakarian City, I can’t say that I am displeased with my new assignment. I have a friend up in Corvon, as you well know, and Cor’Vani is less than an hour away by skimmer._

_Speaking of which, that brings me round to the reason for my letter. My friend, Dr Bashir, was supposed to arrive in Lakarian City two days ago. However, he has failed to appear, and remains incommunicado. Very unlike the good doctor._

_I am worried about him._

_Given that you are his direct superior, I was hoping you might be able to shed some light on the matter? My own investigations have turned up nothing of note._

_Elim._

  


## ***

  
The city of Corvon lay to the north, beyond the Cemetian Steppe and the vast flats of the Lakarian Desert, nestled the snow-covered teeth of the Vyaln j’Makrat. Teeth that bit viciously into the cloudless Cardassian sky and divided the largest continent in two. A mountain range so high and wide that even the utoxa with their great leathery wings could not fly over it. A single, winding pass cut through the range like thread; it was here, in the high country that separated North from South, that Corvon stood. A city of snow and ice and tunnels that ran deep into the obsidian rocks.

Far older than the Cardassian Capital, or even the ancient city of Lakat, it sat half-way along the Northern Passage, the city itself carved into the mountain. It was famed for its thermal waters, or so Julian’s letters had said, and the murals that decorated many of the city’s obsidian walls.

Long ago, when the murals had been freshly painted, and Cardassia had been little more than a world of warring nations, it had been called the Ice Kingdom. A name that had died with the last of its rulers, its ghost living on only in myth and legend. In the stories they told their children before bed, where the monster was as much the cold as any fantastical beast.

It was a different life in Corvon. 

Julian had been assigned to the Corvan and District University Hospital from the beginning. If the account in one of his many letters was to be believed, he had barely stepped off the Rio Grande when he had been ushered by officials onto a skimmer set for the mountains, his work permit and papers receiving little more than a cursory glance. Corvon was a harsh place, with a harsh climate; few Cardassians elected to work in the cold, wet city, preferring the heat of the desert in the valleys below. As a Terran, Julian was more tolerant of the cold than the average Cardassian; and as a Londoner, he had joked once, almost certainly more tolerant of the rain.

Garak had tried twice to get him re-assigned. And twice he had failed. What little sway he held over the State Relief Project was not enough to get Julian transferred; Dr Parmak, though sympathetic to Garak’s requests, had told him his hands were tied. That this was a favour he could not in all good conscience grant, even for a friend. The people of Corvon needed doctors. They needed Dr Bashir.

Just as the people of Lakarian City needed him.

So Garak contented himself with letters. The occasional call when both the stars and their schedules aligned. And in the rare moments he slept, he dreamt of the day Julian would no longer be half a world away.

  


## ***

  
_My dear Doctor,_

_This is the second day you have failed to put in an appearance, without so much as a by your leave. Whilst your manners leave a lot to be desired—an unfortunate consequence of your Federation education—I had thought you would at least reply to my letter. Or perhaps send a small note?_

_Smoke signal?_

_Carrier regova?_

_I must confess, I am starting to worry._

_The news on the cans tells me that there is conflict in the Northern Wastes. A small skirmish, apparently, between East and West Ba’at. Not that there is anything new there; it is somewhat of a tradition, these days. They fought long before the Dominion ever darkened Cardassia’s doors—it would be foolish to think they would not do so after, especially when resources are still so scarce._

_But Ba’at is thousands of miles from your little city of Corvon. Surely that cannot be the cause of your delay?_

_Perhaps it is the snow?_

_I have never understood why any sensible individual would choose to live up in the Vyaln j’Makrat. It is cold, it is wet, and the city is almost entirely underground. Hardly the stuff one dreams of when it comes to finding a home._

_Oh, I am sure it’s very beautiful. The people are no doubt lovely (if a little strange). And I’ve heard that it is a marvel of ancient technology, with its geothermal heating and it’s solar-powered lighting systems. The thermal baths are to die for. The food, exquisite. But, for all that, Corvon is still just a tunnel in the frozen rock with delusions of grandeur._

_What were my ancestors thinking?_

_Perhaps one day you’ll convince me to brave the chill and visit. Though, I’m afraid it will take more than just the promise of lunch._

_Yours in increasing irritation,  
Garak. _

  


## ***

  
On the third day of the Festival of Light, the third day after the date of Julian’s expected arrival, Garak returned again to the Northern Gate. And again, he saw Officers Zol and Jiro stood by the great arch in the city wall, phasers at their hips, PADDs in their hands. Upon a desk nestled in the shade cast by the wall, there were two paper lanterns, square in shape and made of traditional emerald green paper. Upon the sides there were names written in cursive.

Similar lanterns sat upon the table in Garak’s kitchen. Both green, though one as yet unadorned, waiting for Julian’s untidy scrawl.

It was mid-morning, and today the streets were bustling with festival-goers. Clad in a multitude of fabrics and hues, jewelry shining in the sunlight, they wove in and out of the open gate, stopping only to scan their papers at the turnstiles. Many carried lanterns in their hands, newly purchased from the flea-market that had temporarily set up shop in the husk of the old Exchange. A few held food, or cloth, or rolls of heavy paper. Some merely held the hands of others.

It felt like a shadow of the Cardassia Garak remembered. Or perhaps a sketch of it.

A sense of excitement had descended upon the city, and it swept Garak along just as easily as the rest. By the time he reached the gate, he found himself smiling with anticipation, confident that today would be the day Julian would arrive.

“Good morning, Citizen Garak.”

“And a good morning to you, Sergeant Zol.” He inclined his head with a smile, turned to her companion and repeated the gesture. “Officer Jiro.”

Jiro nodded politely. Zol beamed.

“You’re later than I expected,” she said.

“I had things to do. The festival won’t run itself, as I’m sure you’re aware.”

“Only too well,” Jiro grumbled.

“Everyone’s in high spirits,” Zol clarified. “We had two fights this morning. One over a misunderstanding about a tent peg, of all things, and another involving a young woman and her philandering intended. Seems like her Isk-vrana took exception to her previous lover—though, oddly, only after she discovered him with another woman in his tent.”

“Men always want to be a woman’s first love,” Garak intoned. ”Women like to be a man’s last romance.” [1]

“I think it might be her former Isk-vrana’s last romance for a while,” said Jiro, “considering where she kicked him.”

Garak snorted in amusement.

“It sounds like a truly terrible time was had by all,” he said. “And what could be a more traditional way to celebrate a holiday than that?”

The pair nodded in wry agreement. The pleasantries out of the way, Garak moved on to more pressing matters.

“Any news of Dr Bashir?” he asked.

Zol’s smile faltered, and Garak felt his good mood begin to ebb away.

“No. I’m sorry.”

“I see.”

“There’s still two days yet,” she said, “and this one’s hardly over. I’m sure your Dr Bashir will be here soon. There’s another transporter heading down from the Vyaln j’Makrat this afternoon. Perhaps he’ll be on that.”

“Let’s hope so.”

  


## ***

  
_Dear Elim,_

_It’s good to hear from you. I’m very well, thank you. It seems that my new role agrees with me, even if much of the Department does not. Still, no-one likes change, Government employees least of all. I am sure they will get used to me and my eccentricities as time goes on._

_You really must come to Cardassia City. It has changed so much since you were last here; it is almost unrecognisable. I think you would enjoy yourself—not least because it gives you the opportunity to criticise my choice of decor (something I know you have always relished). Did I mention that I have been given new accomodations? A home with a spare room! What a privileged life I lead!_

_(Come visit, Elim. Bring your friend—I am certain he would like to see the place you grew up in, the monuments you made, the legacy your spell of atonement left upon the city)_

_As for Dr Bashir, I granted his request for leave three weeks ago. To my knowledge, there is nothing keeping him in Corvon, and I have received no information to the contrary. The Corvon Relay has been exceptionally quiet this past week._

_I’ve sent an enquiry to the Corvon and District Administrator regarding Bashir’s whereabouts. Let’s hope Citizen Soral has an answer for you._

_Kelas._

  


## ***

  
The Festival of Light was a fine Cardassian tradition. One that had spanned thousands of years. It began on the first day of autumn, the Cardassian New Year, and lasted five days. Long ago—far longer than any State-approved textbook would dare admit—it had been a Hebitian holiday. Originally thrown in celebration of their God Oralius and his re-birth from the summer dust, it had morphed by necessity over the centuries to something of a more secular flavour. Still, the Hebitian temples that had survived The Purge, and later the Dominion, burnt their incense and gave their offerings along with their thanks regardless.

On the first day, they brought food to the temples, a feast for the poor and the unfortunate; in recent years, with rationing and famine, the pickings had been slim and the need great. On the second, they gave money, each bar of latinum offered in the hope of bringing prosperity for the coming year. On the third day, lanterns were lit and set adrift upon lakes and rivers, each bearing the names of those they loved and those they had lost. The fourth day demanded water, poured into bowls with gilded rims, used to wash the last of the summer dust from their scales. And on the fifth and final day, they gave their prayers. They whispered their hopes, their dreams to the night sky, and thought of what the new year would bring.

For most, the celebrations were less formal. An excuse to eat, drink and be merry. Three things which had been in short supply over the last decade.

For Garak, at most a casual follower of the Oralian Way, the festival was primarily an excuse to see Julian. Though his duties with the Ministry of Reclamation and Prefect Khell would keep him in Lakarian City, his role one of a liaison to the city’s Oralian community, he had seen to it that Julian had been granted leave. Two weeks, the majority of which he would spend in Lakarian City.

It would be their first such meeting since the spring, and only the third since Julian had come to Cardassia a year and a half ago. An infuriating state of affairs, but one which Garak had grudgingly come to accept.

He would see his world rise from the ashes. Begin anew. But there were prices that had to be paid. Sacrifices to make. Such as two weeks for every fifteen in which he could be with his dearest of doctors.

And a bed that remained perpetually empty.

Garak looked at the pair of lanterns that sat upon his dining room table, square and green, waiting for darkness to fall and their wicks to be lit. Later, he would take them to the temple on Varn Street; it looked out over the river Lakar, the polished obsidian steps behind the altar leading down to the water. Perhaps he would give the blank lantern to someone else. It seemed a shame to waste it.

The sun was beginning to set, turning the white walls of the living room orange and red and gold. From the streets below, the sound of revelry rose. Laughter. Music. Singing.

In Garak’s home there was only silence.

  


## ***

  
_[MESSAGE RETRIEVED]_

_My daer Dootcr, Peahrps I sluohd hvae kwonn better tahn to beeilve you wehn you siad y’uod avirre hree for the sratt of the fesitivites. Gevin taht tmie and yoesrulf aaeppr to hvae a teounus relsnoitahip at bea—tsnd yse, I did keep cnuot of the nebmur of ocoisacns you wree ltae for our luehcns. Fifs-ytix, if you wree wonniredg—I connat coefnss to be susirpred by tihs trun of evtnes. I can olny amusse taht the daley is due to smoe unfnutroate mecidal emnegrecy olny you and yuor illagelly lgrae biarn can sevlo. Ah, the disatnavdages of frisdnehip wtih one so in denamd! It is lykcu, is it nto, taht I am not the jeolaus tepy? Wsliht you did not aks, I am srue you wlil be dethgiled to konw taht the fsrit day of the fevitsal has been a resdnuoing suseccs. In no slaml ptra, I mhgit add, to the tielerss efrofts of mylesf. I connat rlacel whhteer I menoitned my rloe in tihs y’raes pronideecgs: I am cutnerrly on laon form the Mitsinry of Recs—noitamalee, daer Dootcr, you are not the olny one in dem—!dnaand am bsuy woikrng for Prefect Klleh. Iv’e been gevin the rloe of Ceihf Lisiaon to Lairakan C’ytis Orilaan cominumty. An houonr, or so Iv’e been tdlo. Hoevewr, I get the dinitsct impsserion it is taht silugnar vaeirty of huonor taht is olny veweid as scuh in oedrr to shtooe the ego of the poor inddiviual unculky eguonh to be getfid it. The expsserion taht cemos to mnid is a Tarren oen: it is lkie heidrng csta. In ftca, I wluod be so blod as to say it is wsroe tahn heidrng csta. Csta, at ltsae, do not wax phiihposolcal on anihtyng and evehtyring as tehy are heedrd. Sllit, sueccss was had in the edn! Or, raehtr, the beginning, gevin trehe are fuor mroe dyas to go. (uoFr mroe dsya, daer Dootcr, in wcihh I ecepxt to be grtnaed yuor delthgiful conapmy. I hvae been deined oneffus—ice to sya, I wlil not snatd for mero. My plrusaees in lfie are fwe, and you are one of t.meh) Yruos in antitapicion, Garak PS.. I hvae raed the book (I thguoht it shollaw, tetir, and olrevy sen—latnemitbut you alaerdy kenw I wodlu). Hoevewr, I did fnid chtpaer 47 illitanimung. Do you aerge wtih Dr Iasinn’s assemssent? Rae yuo, ineedd, mda? I ma?_

_[SENDER: UNKNOWN. LOCATION: UNKNOWN. TIME: UNKNOWN]_

  


## ***

  
_[MESSAGE RETRIEVED]_

_Miy daer Dootcr, Tihs is the snoced day you hvae feliad to put in an appnaraece, wiohtut so mcuh as a by yuor levae. Wsliht yuor maennrs lvaee a lot to be desderi—an unfnutroate coneuqesnce of yuor Fedtareion eduoitacn—I had thguoht you wluod at lsaet rlpey to my leettr. Or peahrps sned a slaml neto? Skome siangl? Cairrer avogerI? I msut cosefns, I am stitrang to wyrro. The nwes on the cnas tlles me taht trehe is coilfnct in the Noehtrrn Waetss. A slaml sksimrih, apptneraly, beewten Esat and Wset Bta’a. Not taht trehe is anihtyng new tereh; it is sohwemat of a traitidon, tsehe dsya. Tehy fhguot lnog brofee the Doinimon eevr danekred Carissada’s do—sroit wluod be foilosh to tnihk tehy wluod not do so aretf, espaicelly wehn recruoses are slitl so sccrae. But Ba’at is thnasuods of melis form yuor llttie ctiy of Coovrn. Sleruy taht connat be the csuae of yuor dyale? Peahrps it is the swon? I hvae never undtsreood why any sebisnle inddiviual wluod csoohe to lvie up in the iayVln j’MtarkaI. It is cdlo, it is wte, and the ctiy is asomlt eneritly unduorgrend. Hldray the sfutf one dmaers of wehn it cemos to fiidnng a hemo. Oh, I am srue i’ts vrey beafituul. The plpoee are no dbuot llevoy (if a llttie stegnar). And Iv’e hraed taht it is a mevral of aneicnt tecolonhgy, wtih its georehtmal heitang and i’ts solewop-rared liithgng symetss. The thmreal bhtas are to die fro. The fdoo, exqisiute. Btu, for all ttah, Covron is slitl jsut a tennul in the fezorn rcok wtih deoisulns of gruednar. Waht wree my anotsecrs thniknig? Peahrps one day yl’uol conivnce me to bvare the clihl and vtisi. Thguoh, I’m aiarfd it wlil tkae mroe tahn jsut the primose of lhcnu. Yruos in incsaering irritation, Gkara._

_[SENDER: UNKNOWN. LOCATION: UNKNOWN. TIME: UNKNOWN]_

  


## ***

  
The fourth day brought a chill that blew down from the mountains. It did not, however, bring Julian with it.

There was an old Earth maxim the doctor had told him once, back on Deep Space Nine, when the war had been in full swing and every day brought had brought with it a new list of losses: no news is good news.

He’d scoffed at Julian’s words then.

_’Really, my dear. I can think of several scenarios where no news would indicate the advent of something worse. Besides, it doesn’t account for such mundanities as the disruption of a comm system. No news is no news, good or otherwise.’_

He checked his PADD. Personal messages first, then the cans, and finally the wider comm lines. No messages from Julian. No news.

And was that good or bad?

Even now, six years after the Dominion had razed Cardassia to the ground, inter-city communication was nowhere close to reliable. Dust storms knocked out the desert relays with alarming frequency. The generators on the southern coasts were temperamental at best, the rolling blackouts a boon only for Cardassia’s newly flourishing photovoltaics industry. Electronic post often got lost, inexplicably redirected into the ether as the Ministry of Technology rolled out system update after system update in an effort to keep its damaged, aging infrastructure functional.

He checked again. And again. 

And again.

The afternoon came and went in much the same fashion as the morning. Slowly, and with nothing by way of an explanation for Julian’s continued absence. The officers stationed at the Northern Gate could give him no news, either. Only unwanted looks of sympathy and empty assurances that his friend would appear soon, they were certain of it.

  


## ***

  
_Julian,_

_Please come._

_I miss you._

_I..._

_Yours in increasing despair,  
Garak._

  


## ***

  
The chronometer ticked by and the fourth day gradually became the fifth.

  


## ***

  
_[MESSAGE RETRIEVED]_

_Juailn, Psaele cemo. I msis yuo. … I. Yruos in incsaering deiapsr, Gkara._

_[SENDER: UNKNOWN. LOCATION: UNKNOWN. TIME: UNKNOWN]_

  


## ***

  
It was dark. Three new moons hid in the inky blackness between the stars, little more than shadows in the night sky. Garak sat upon his bed, listening to the sounds that drifted in from the street beyond the open window. Laughter. Merriment. The words of a hundred different songs, all misremembered and out of tune.

Beside the bed was a bowl with a golden rim, now empty, and a sponge. A bottle of kanar, as empty as the bowl, stood beside it. In the twilight, his scales glistened. 

He sighed heavily, and said to the darkness, “I wish you were here, Doctor.”

“Lucky for you it’s the Fifth of Imar, then,” came the reply. “A little bird told me that’s the day everyone’s wishes are supposed to be granted.”

At first, Garak thought the reply a dream. A consequence of too much melancholy and kanar. Yet, there was a shadow upon the far wall—one not cast by the sparse furniture that inhabited his bedroom, but shaped like a man. 

He turned. 

“Julian.”

“Hello, Garak.” 

The Doctor smiled, radiant in the half-light that poured in from the streetlamps beyond the window. Relief, sweet and aching, washed over Garak as he took in the scene: Julian, dressed in traveling clothes and half the desert’s dust, standing barefoot beside the bed, watching him.

“You came.”

“I promised I would.” Julian moved to sit beside him. “I’m sorry I’m late; couldn’t be helped, I’m afraid. I did try sending a message—several, in fact—but nothing got through. They all got bounced back in a scramble.”

Garak felt giddy, drunk on both joy and kanar. He longed to touch Julian. Place a hand upon his shoulder. Hold him tight to his chest. Bury his nose in his hair and breathe so deeply he would never forget the scent. 

Ensure he was real, and not some figment of an overactive imagination. 

But he did none of those things. Instead, he remained motionless and said, “No need to apologise, Doctor.” 

“There’s every need,” Julian replied. He trailed his fingers absently across the bedspread as he spoke, his eyes never leaving Garak’s. “And I have quite a few things to apologise for, so you’re going to have to sit and listen, whether you think it necessary or not. After all, I’ve spent the last four days preparing my apologies.” He grinned. “That’s an awful lot of effort to waste, wouldn’t you say?”

Garak had missed Julian. Missed his smile. Missed the warmth that radiated from him, both physically and metaphorically. The knot of worry that had tightened across his chest slowly began to loosen. He breathed deeply for the first time in days. 

“I can already see this isn’t an argument I’m going to win,” he replied in mock consternation.

“Best course of action, I think, is to pretend you’re on my side. Wouldn’t want to tarnish your record with a loss.”

The tease was accompanied by a gentle knocking of shoulders. Garak bit back a smile of his own, and instead schooled his features into a mask of stern self-righteousness. 

“Quite right,” he said, peering down his ridged nose at the Doctor. “Go on, then. I demand you apologise to me.”

The contrite look upon Julian’s face was ruined by the way the corners of his mouth twitched with barely-suppressed mirth. 

“I’m sorry I broke into your home, and your bedroom, just to say hello.”

As apologies went, it was less than convincing. Garak appreciated it nonetheless. 

“It must be said, you do have a flair for the dramatic.”

“I’m glad you appreciate my efforts.”

Garak nodded. “Always.”

Another smile. One with an edge of mischief to it. 

“I had thought it would take me a little longer, though,” Julian said. “Your home security is dreadful, Garak. One lock, barely worth picking. Whatever happened to the paranoid Cardassian I used to know?”

“I’ve nothing worth stealing,” he replied honestly, gesturing to the room and its sad, spartan little pieces of furniture. 

“Oh, I don’t think that’s true. There’s something I could steal from you, though I’m sure you’d give it to me if I asked.” Julian’s eyes flickered briefly to Garak’s lips. He rubbed a hand across the stubble at his jaw, and continued, “But we’re getting side tracked. I’m sorry I didn’t wait for you at the Northern Gate, like I said I would. I didn’t much fancy spending the night outside in a tent. Your bed was a far more appealing prospect.” His smile widened. “Which leads me nicely onto my next apology. One that I make in advance, no less. I’d like to apologise for stealing the blankets. I’ve been told I’m terrible for it.”

A new tension took root in Garak’s body. His chest tightened again. Only this time, it was not with worry, but anticipation. In his stomach, there were butterflies. 

His heart ached. 

“Awfully bold of you to assume that you wouldn’t be sleeping on the floor,” he said, suddenly unable to look Julian in the eye.

“Ah, but am I wrong?” Julian placed a hand upon Garak’s knee. It was trembling. “I’m perfectly capable of reading between the lines of your letters, and I am pretty sure there was an invitation in there, somewhere. Or must I make another apology?”

“I wouldn’t want to add to the apparent burden of your guilt.”

Julian laughed. “How considerate of you.”

“I’m a considerate man, these days. Generous, too, given that I now share not only my time and my valuable opinions with you, but also my bed.”

Garak watched as Julian’s fingers moved to cover his own. They were warm. Soft. With a hidden strength to them, too, apparent only in the way they held his, the grip light but unbreakable. 

“Perhaps I should apologise for forcing your hand,” Julian said, quietly.

“It’s time someone did, don’t you think?” he said. 

“In that case, I apologise for not doing so sooner. Thirteen years is an awfully long time to wait.”

A silence fell between them. One that spoke more than words or letters ever could. 

Garak turned Julian’s hand over in his. He stroked a thumb across the Doctor’s palm and listened as his breath caught. Slowly, he lifted his head to meet Julian’s gaze. His free hand followed, cupping Julian’s jaw. 

He was so beautiful in the twilight, his dear Doctor, with his wide eyes and a face more honest than Garak had ever been. Beautiful, like paintings of Inc’en Rojek, or a sculpture by Michaelangelo. Beautiful, like the spring, and the orchids Garak grew in his garden. And here he sat, beside a drunk and lonely old man, waiting for a response to a confession that came both thirteen years too late, and several years too soon. 

“I didn’t care for the book,” Garak said after a moment. 

“Sorry,” Julian replied. “Though that hardly surprises me.”

Garak’s fingers grazed across stubble. 

“Dr Iannis is wrong about love and its associated madness.”

The bed creaked beneath them as they shifted upon it, Julian edging ever nearer until there was barely a hair’s breadth between them. He was so close Garak could feel each quiet exhale against his lips, Julian’s breath hot and sweet with tea. The Doctor’s eyes bored into his own, his irises little more than thin rings around wide, black pupils.

“Oh?”

“There is nothing temporary about it,” he said.

And with that, he captured Julian’s lips with his own.

  


## ***

  
_**FAO:** Citizen Garak._

_**RE:** Dr Julian Bashir, whereabouts thereof. _

_Please be advised, Dr Bashir left Corvon on public skimmer CTC 584 at 04:39, Imar 4th._

_Corvon District C9 experienced an avalanche earlier this week, blocking all exits to the Southern Pass. Our communication relays were also damaged in the event, as were several of the C9 residential tunnels. Casualties were minimal, but Dr Bashir’s assistance was required by the excavation team._

_Dr Bashir’s leave has been extended to compensate for time lost._

_Regards,  
Citizen Soral. _

_**[This message may be subject to delay]**  
_

  


**Author's Note:**

> [1] Oscar Wilde.
> 
>   
> As for the book Julian gives to Garak, the chapter he references (no. 47) includes Dr Iannis’ lecture upon love, and how _‘Love is a temporary madness'_. It is also, coincidentally, where the title of this piece comes from:  
>  _'We had roots that grew towards each other underground, and when all the pretty blossom had fallen from our branches we found that we were one tree and not two'_. 
> 
> You can find the quote [HERE](https://www.goodreads.com/quotes/1233229-love-is-a-temporary-madness-it-erupts-like-volcanoes-and) in full.
> 
> The section of the chapter that Julian is specifically referring to in his letter is this:  
>  _‘You have also grown a little stupid. He gave you a rose the other day, and you pressed it in my book of symptoms. If you had not been so in love and had had a little sense, you would have pressed it in some other book that I did not use every day. I think it is very fitting that the rose is to be found in the section that deals with erotomania.’_
> 
> Given that Garak gave him an orchid, I’m sure that you can imagine exactly which part of his medical textbook he used to press it (I’ll give you a hint: it involves reproductive biology).


End file.
